


Taken Apart

by discombobulate



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominance, Love, M/M, Oral Sex, Romance, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-30
Updated: 2011-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-23 06:25:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/discombobulate/pseuds/discombobulate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt: "John holding Sherlock's wrists down as he fucks him slowly wordlessly relentlessly for ages until Sherlock is weeping and begging to come, but not letting him until Sherlock's completely taken apart to the point he can't speak or struggle."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taken Apart

It wasn’t something John did often: taking Sherlock apart like this.

In all honesty, most of the time John welcomed being overwhelmed by the extraordinary man. Like with his violin playing, Sherlock made love in equal parts passionately, wildly and with experienced finesse. About three of seven days a week, John found himself teased and caressed and pinned to the walls of Baker Street, pinned with tricky, long limbs to a narrow chest, the bones of his scapula grinding into the birdlike hollow of Sherlock’s ribcage. Sherlock enjoyed watching John be willingly bent and restrained and wanting under the flat plains of his hands, and John adored the fervent intensity that radiated off of Sherlock in these moments, eyes for John and John alone.

But while Sherlock’s own brand of domineering sex was explosive, an ecstasy of fast, hard pleasure and chemical reactions, like the burn of cocaine in the bloodstream, John found himself to be more of a simmering gas flame.

Sometimes, Sherlock descended into what Mycroft deemed ‘black moods’ (said with the scoffing tones of a man unwilling to dignify a particular concept with anything more than doubt and sneering resentment). Sometimes, nothing John did was enough, and Sherlock buckled down into a stupor, curled into a chrysalis of frustration and abject loneliness (he believed, in those times, that there is no one like him, no one who can understand him, and in those times even John’s friendship isn’t enough to stop him from scouring the flat for a needle, any needle. What he doesn’t know about are the times where John feels the same – exactly the same – and pulls out his gun to clean it fastidiously, and breathes in counterpoint to the upward swipe of the cloth against steel).

But sometimes, John can catch it early enough. Sometimes he noticed the particular way of scrubbing his hand through unruly curls that means Sherlock can’t understand why no one thinks. Sometimes he noticed the increasing amount of not-good things he began to say out of _spite_ rather than genuine ignorance of proper manners.

When John noticed, he made sure to sit across from a wound-up Sherlock and direct a steady gaze at him. Not one of anger or pity, but a sheer, unbridled promise of the fact that by the end of the night Sherlock wouldn’t know up from down, dug free from the burden of his ever darkening thoughts.  
And so, John pottered about his daily life. Sherlock as frustrated as before, but with an excited anticipation in his actions that he seems unable to contain, with the knowledge of that John is going to do to him.

John smirked a little and took the smallest advantage of this – Sherlock was just so _pliable_ in this frame of mind.  
“Sherlock, could you help me with dinner, please?” he was careful to keep it a casual request, to prevent the detective’s hackles from raising and full-on sulking mode from activating. John’s own mood lifted as he and Sherlock prepped and cooked a pasta bake, exchanging banter and enjoying light (for Sherlock – it excluded anything involving entrails anyway) conversation.

Throughout the pleasant evening, John noticed Sherlock’s shoulders relaxing in increments as time passed. John found himself rewarding every noticeable decrease in tension with physical contact, preludes to the mind-blowing night that would follow: a thumb rubbing across Sherlock’s knuckles; entwining their calves underneath the table; a kiss planted on the nape of Sherlock’s neck as John passed behind him with the mostly-empty plates. Each touch was rewarded with a nearly-invisible shiver of pleasure and a half-lidded gaze from Sherlock.

While John was elbow-deep in warm soapy suds, Sherlock tried not to give into impulse, but couldn’t help himself – he rose and slipped behind the other man, which garnered no reaction. Sherlock slid his arms around the doctor’s waist, taking in all he could: the rough-soft feel of the old jumper beneath his arms; the warmth radiating from John like a furnace; the soft, clean smell of his hair as Sherlock bent his head into it. The embrace was as comforting to Sherlock as it normally would be to John – the feeling of his arms being full of John, of having a whole human being stretched against his body, it soothed something in Sherlock that had been _howling_.

Of course, this softness wasn’t what Sherlock needed at that moment. Afterwards, certainly, but for now...

John twisted suddenly in Sherlock’s grip, grabbing his wrists gently but firmly.

“John?”

“Shh,” John murmured, hardening his gaze and looking Sherlock dead in the eye, gripping his wrists tighter in warning. Even this brought a pretty little flush to Sherlock’s cheeks, his pupils dilating within rings of silver-blue.

Sherlock tried to lean in to kiss John, but John was having none of it. Without a word, he halted Sherlock with rough hands gripping the collar of his shirt, before half-dragging, half-leading him out the kitchen and up the stairs to John’s bedroom. Sherlock needed to be surrounded by John tonight. What better way than to be sprawled in sheets that smelled of John, being kissed and held and sucked and fingered and fucked by John himself?

Sherlock was already failing to hold back little keening noises – being pushed around by the blunt force of his boyfriend made him feel out of control, but in the only way he could ever possibly enjoy. Were it anyone but John, he’d be lashing out, furious and snarling insults.

Eventually, they made it to John’s bed, where John lowered Sherlock firmly into the rumpled sheets (rumpled from the wank John deliberately had that morning. Though clean of semen, the scent of sex was unmistakeable and sure to send vivid images to Sherlock’s overloaded brain of John’s sleep-warm body writhing and sweating on the bed, hands clenching on the sheets as he stroked his thick cock hard and fast). Sherlock inhaled and shuddered, the rank but _delectable_ hint of sweat and clean musk and semen shooting from his nostrils to his dick.

John was determined to say nothing, no matter how much Sherlock pleaded or begged – this was about getting Sherlock to overload to the point where he short-fused and came back to himself. John’s maximum concentration was required and as much as they both enjoyed dirty talk, it was not the night for it. He hitched himself onto Sherlock, straddled him and stretched the full length of his sturdy body against Sherlock’s.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock breathed out, and John silenced him with a deep kiss. John flickered his tongue wetly in and out of Sherlock’s mouth, mimicking the way he was going to fuck him later. They were light, teasing thrusts into the detective’s mouth, however, and no matter how much Sherlock arched his own body against John, his hips thrusting desperately as he tried to bring John’s tongue deeper into his yielding mouth. But he didn’t relent, keeping every slick invasion into Sherlock’s mouth shallow and teasing, just stimulating his full, flushed lips and the very tip of his tongue. Sherlock kept up a mantra of John’s name even as he was interrupted by the doctor’s relentless tongue and teeth and lips. Despite his cool demeanour, John found himself hardening quickly, which he took as a cue to move on to the next step.

Once again, John grabbed hold of Sherlock’s wrists, halting the roaming hands and pinning them efficiently above his head. Sherlock was all wide-eyed curiosity and lust, and John growled a warning against his lips before removing both their clothing steadily, unhurriedly. They were tossed in a heap to the side, and John hitched his hips upwards, straddling the younger man’s chest. Sherlock’s head was somewhat tilted upwards by pillows, his hands pinned to his sides, so he knew exactly what was expected of him.

With a bit of a struggle, Sherlock leant his face forwards, nuzzling and sighing against John’s crotch, licking at the thick denim of his jeans. When John placed his hand on the back of Sherlock’s head, he caught the zipper between his teeth, pulling down, freeing the protruding, warm fabric beneath.  
Wordlessly, John reached down and brought his cock out of the slit of his constraining underwear, nudging the head to rub against Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock took his cock in with a nasal moan, John thrusting as far in as the awkward positioning would allow.

Sherlock took it into his mouth, tongue flickering madly against the glans, wet heat sucking John further, further down to the back of his throat. John’s thighs trembled from the strain of not thrusting wildly in and out of that mouth, allowing Sherlock to take him gradually, get accustomed to the thick object sliding into his throat.

Finally, John rested, looking down to watch Sherlock’s flushed lips sliding up and down his length. John didn’t even have to do anything, Sherlock was so desperate to suck his cock, to pull little grunts and sighs from John with hot suction around his dick.

When Sherlock got to the point of forgetting himself, hands stroking up and down John’s thighs and buttocks, John removed himself with an obscenely wet pop. Sherlock groaned in frustration, but John ignored it, moving off of him and crouching by the bedside cabinet to grope for something. Sherlock did nothing but lay there and pant, and when one hand idly reached down to grasp his own cock, John returned and snatched it away, silently rebuking him. Sherlock snarled and when he struggled to move his hand back to his groin, John pinned it hard to the side, before in a movement so fluid Sherlock barely had time to register it, hoisted Sherlock’s legs up until he was folded in half, rested the backs of his knees against John’s broad shoulders and slid one blunt, slicked finger into Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock’s head twisted from side to side, wriggling as though to escape, his thighs tensing uselessly against John, unable to gain leverage. The heated pumping of John’s finger inside of him grew, and he felt himself stretch reluctantly inside as John inserted two more fingers, each thrust outwards now accompanied with a clever twist that makes Sherlock _whine_.

Finally, John removed his fingers, Sherlock being sufficiently stretched and ready. John carefully moved backwards, releasing the pressure forced on Sherlock’s legs, and manually wrapped those legs around his waist. As Sherlock’s hands reached to touch John’s chest, John caught and held one of Sherlock’s hands over his heart, letting Sherlock feel his strong, fast pulse through his pectorals.

“Fuck,” Sherlock hissed, thumbing at John’s nipple. Then he inhaled deeply through his nose before releasing it, met John’s unwavering eyes for a long moment before tilting his head back, arching his neck in clear submission.

John took this as the cue to slowly, so slowly, take both Sherlock’s wrists into the grasp of one tanned hand, press a kiss to the delicate frame of veins on one of them, and then lower them to the bed, deliberately, with intent. He covered the detective’s body with his own, the slide of skin against skin almost unbearably intimate to Sherlock after the somewhat rough treatment from before. He couldn’t help but murmur a quiet “John,” when he started pressing hot kisses to his bared throat, licking and biting at the jutting carotid artery ever-so-gently. His legs were still spread wide, and he jolted a little at the first brush of John’s cock against his loosened entrance.

John raised his head and Sherlock could count every sandy eyelash before he saw nothing at all, eyes fluttering closed when John kissed him to smother Sherlock’s moan when he entered him in one smooth motion.

John’s tongue was wet and thick in his mouth, but it was barely a tingle of sensation compared to the thick cock breaching him. John breathed sharply through his nose, but Sherlock had to break away with a whimper to get some oxygen in his lungs. His wrists were immobilised and he struggled to touch again, but John’s grip was firm and unyielding. The tease of John, warm above him, stomachs barely brushing, cock halfway up him is too much, _too much_.

Sherlock shuddered beneath him, restrained but still kicking his legs against the sheets and tossing his head in sheer frustration. John went quiet – not the sort of quiet from not speaking, but the waiting, predatory sort of quiet. He still fucked him gently, shallowly, never allowing his penis to slide in more than half way, sometimes popping the glans out completely only to rub it against the sensitised skin of his hole.

“Fuck, John, fucking do something already,” Sherlock bit out, arching his hips, then moving them back and forth, fucking himself on John, opening himself so sweetly to him that John has to stop and brace himself, allowing this behaviour for a moment or two. Then he snarled himself, hooking Sherlock’s left leg over his shoulder again, rounding his spine and fucked, _fucked_ Sherlock into the mattress.

At first, Sherlock continued to arch and moan loudly, eyes squeezed shut as he was overwhelmed with pleasure, hands scrabbling uselessly, toes curling, and John just fucked him at a steady pace. The sensation of his dick sliding wetly in and out, grinding against his prostate was insanely good, and Sherlock shouted and grunted and cursed and pleaded in equal measures. John clenched his jaw against the hot, slick, _tight_ sensation of Sherlock wrapped around his dick, clenching along with his rhythm, involuntarily gripping around him as though his body was desperate to keep John in.  
Sherlock kept up a mantra of pleads and high-pitched, embarrassing noises throughout.

“God, fuck, John – I _can’t_. It’s too _much_. I’ll do anything, just let me fucking come already. John. Fuck! John, I need...” he trailed off abruptly, face scrunching helplessly as John got one arm between his thighs, pressed one finger to the stretched rim of Sherlock’s arsehole. Wordlessly, he forced the digit in between his cock and the edge of Sherlock’s entrance. It came away wet and Sherlock moaned with – not disgust, but something like it, at the obscene wet sounds that ensued from John’s rough pounding of his hot, swollen hole.

“Hahnn—oh please, fuck John, please, please, I need more, I need _you_ please, fuck, I—I—“ Sherlock was howling, face darkly flushed and eyes glazed, whimpers and begging becoming barely coherent as he drowned in the feeling of John taking him mercilessly.

Finally, John wrapped his free arm around Sherlock’s back, holding him close and burying his face into the crook of his neck as he rolled his hips in grinding circles against Sherlock, making him shudder and spasm underneath. Sherlock was anchored by John’s sweaty palm clasping his back, and he himself moved like the cresting of a wave, helplessly riding back as he was ridden, the motions of his hips completely and utterly instinctual.  
John felt the tense bundle of human below him turn boneless, no longer fighting against or for the stimulation, simply laying back and accepting what was given. As reward, he nosed under Sherlock’s jaw and gentled his grip on his wrists. Leaning back, he released Sherlock’s back in order to brace himself on the bed. He curved his back and couldn’t stifle his own moan at the face - _Sherlock’s face_ open and slack-jawed and utterly vulnerable. John felt a surge of affection and lust all at once and he _knew_ Sherlock could take it, always takes it if it’s from John. His body always surrendered to this, to the thrusting of John’s cock deep inside him, whether or not it brushed against his sweet spot.

High, thin whines escaped Sherlock’s throat, eyes alternating between being shut so tight that deep creases fan out from the edges, to being wide and unblinking in surprised pleasure when John finds and rubs relentlessly at his prostate. His legs were passively in the air, thighs trembling as he lurched closer and closer to completion, hands slack and accepting in the ring in John’s grasp.

John covered his face in kisses, to his cheekbone, the high arch of his brows, his fluttering eyelids, and to his trembling lips. Throughout, Sherlock’s mantra of “I love you, god, fuck John, I love you, don’t stop, I need this, I need you,” was answered with more kisses and a rumbling groan of pleasure and agreement.

Sherlock continued to whimper and moan without abandon, panting breaths hot and wet against John’s broad shoulder. John felt his balls tighten, and changed the angle until he was thrusting directly at Sherlock’s prostate while simultaneously rubbing Sherlock’s cock against the slight curve of his belly.  
Sherlock came with a hitch in his breathing and his hips wild and out of control, grinding against John helplessly. John finally released Sherlock’s wrists so he could hold him close as he rode out his orgasm, Sherlock clutching desperately to John as his semen spurted out across both of their chests and stomachs, ran into their pubic hair. Sherlock continued to hold on tightly as John came himself, filling Sherlock’s still-spasming arse with warm spurts of come.

John held himself until he softened completely, pulling himself out with a soft, obscene squelch. Sherlock was flat on his back, trembling with over-stimulation. John swiftly grabbed a cloth from beside the bed and cleaned Sherlock gently, running it across his torso and wiping across the slick cleft of his backside, before wiping himself clean and throwing the cloth away in favour of urging Sherlock onto his side. John wrapped his trapped arm into the gap between Sherlock’s head and his shoulder, his other came across the taller man’s waist and his fingers unknotted the notches of Sherlock’s spine.  
Sherlock hummed contently, his long pale feet lazily rubbing at John’s. A deep throated chuckle madeits way from his vocal chords when John batted playfully back.

Sherlock meant to say something - not a thank you exactly, but some snarky comment with hidden undertones of gratitude, when a soft snore rumbled in his ear.

So he smirked and said it all while John slept – it’s hardly his fault John wasn’t able to hear any of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Err, so this has been my first completed, serious work of smut. Bit nervous about it, to be honest.


End file.
